All Logic Aside
by FrUKing Awesome Canadian Hero
Summary: 'Nine hours, thirty-one minutes and 3.2579 seconds to our destination, and Kirk was already bordering on twenty-four hours on the command deck.' In carrying out his duties as first officer, Spock finally allows exhaustion to break his barriers of logic, and realizes something he should've known all along. Spirk; insane fluff, because this fandom doesn't have enough of it.


**A/N: Well... erm, hello there, new fandom. I've basically spent the last two days blasting my brain with Star Trek, trying to get enough of it ingested to be able to write something when I get home from seeing _Into Darkness _tonight-which I'm extremely excited about, by the way.**

**This is my first venture into absolutely anything Star Trek, so please don't hesitate to tell me if they're out of character or anything is inaccurate; that said, I've also noticed that there seems to be a severe shortage of pure fluff among Space Husbands shippers (angst! I can't deal with all the angst! D:), so this was born. Honestly, Spock being part human and in love with Jim and all that, I see him as being a very emotional creature; he's just good at hiding it.**

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Nine hours, thirty-one minutes and 3.2579 seconds to our destination, and Kirk was already bordering on twenty-four hours on the command deck.

Without some sort of rest, there was absolutely no way he would be able to remain accurately alert for the complicated maze of diplomatic negotiations and possible impending battle ahead.

Young, reckless human—always determined to go one step farther, one minute longer, one mark faster. In times such as these, it was what distinguished the incredible Captain James Tiberius Kirk, the only man alive ever to have beaten the Kobayashi Maru scenario that I had programmed myself. It was also what would be his undoing; one day, he would take that next step out onto the cliff and there would be nothing there to rest his foot upon.

Given that nearly 64 percent of the _Enterprise_'s crew were human, except in emergency circumstances the lights ran on an automatic timer to stimulate a similarity to day and night on Earth, with twelve hours for each shift before they dimmed or grew bright again. We were at warp four, and with nine hours, thirty minutes and 57.8340 seconds before the lights would go into emergency mode, the ship was dim and quiet, blips of system alerts, the occasional report, and the flickering glow of monitors the only sounds or lights to break the reverie.

Normally, the lights of the bridge would be kept at full as a constant; it was only logical that those operating the ship should be fully awake and able to see clearly, without hindrance or the drowsy relaxation that the fuzzy dimness seemed to bring over all of the crew. After the previous Klingons had finally been deterred from following us, leaving us with approximately nine and a half hours of calm before the storm, however, it appeared that Mr. Scott had made an exception. I could easily justify the reasoning behind it, despite it not being the first course of action by way of purely analytical reasoning. I too was fatigued—and if I was tired, there was no doubt Captain Kirk was exhausted, not to mention Chekov, Uhura and the rest of the human crew.

Though, for reasons I myself could not quite understand, even after much meditation, Jim was the one I considered most.

I watched him from the corner of my eye, taking in the mess of his unruly blond hair, such a recessive genetic trait on Vulcan that it had ceased to exist within our population nearly a century ago; his blue eyes had also been alien to me the first time I had truly seen them, and now they shone beneath the warm, low lights of the bridge. He slumped. His face rested in one hand, cheek and bridge of his nose and strong line of his jaw glowing golden, the other half of his face obscured in shadow. His chest rose and fell more deeply than it seemed to under the usual harshness of the bridge lights; I attributed it to exhaustion from twenty-four hours alone spent in command, my calculations excluding the number of hours in the day of shore leave before, during which he must have been in a waking state. Yes, even by Vulcan standards, Jim was, as he may have said, 'pushing it'.

In the softer golden light now filtering down from the ceiling, I found it harder to look away from him, bathed in the glow like an untold, nameless work of art.

Yes, to be thinking this illogically confirmed my suspicions of fatigue.

After fifteen exact minutes of inactivity on the bridge, I rose from my seat, drawing few eyes when I stepped downward to carefully rotate the Captain's chair to face me, successfully obtaining his attention. His eyes were glazed and bloodshot, but still brilliantly blue.

"Mr. Spock?" he inquired, clearing his throat. I did not allow myself a visual response to his weary, though true smile.

"Captain, given that it has been fifteen point thirty-eight minutes since we went into warp, and no immediate danger appears to jeopardize our mission or safety, I suggest we continue onward to the next matter of business." My voice sounded too much softer than usual—the strange _fondness _Jim evoked in me all too often seemed almost to be revealed. His smile gave the warm, slightly unsettling notion that he had already detected it.

"And what'd that be, Spock?" he asked, watching me. I controlled the urge to swallow, observing the cascade of light over the golden lashes framing blue, bloodshot eyes.

"I estimate that you have been awake for far over twenty-four hours, sir," I replied, folding my hands behind my back. "It is my duty as first officer to ensure that the captain maintains a physical and psychological condition sufficient to accurately perform all responsibilities associated with his post; furthermore, it is logical that you would need rest to prepare for the diplomatic negotiations that await at our destination."

Jim sighed, quite obviously stifling a yawn and running a hand over his face. He shook his head. Just as I had previously hypothesized.

"It's my duty to stay with the crew. They've all been awake for just as long as I have—maybe longer. We all need rest, but we can't exactly just hit the autopilot button and go pass out, because somewhere along the line, those Klingons are bound to come up again."

I did not cross my arms, though I wished to.

"Need I cite regulation directly, Captain?" I asked, quirking one eyebrow upward.

"Oh, Spock, you know me..." Jim teased, a tiny grin on his face as he shook his head. "So tell me, what would happen if I just decided to ignore it?"

I stiffened slightly, but Uhura's voice broke the conversation. "_Again_, you mean?" she added, turning away from her station. She was smiling.

"Again," Jim amended, turning back to me. He grinned like a mischievous child, a wickedly stubborn glint in his eye. A moment of silence settled between us, and then he spoke again. "Y'know, you're too smart to not know by now that nothing is by regulation on this ship."

"Trust me, I have observed so," I replied dryly, watching him. He laughed. "Although I also find the statistical probability of our success in the negotiations to be exponentially increased if you have had a few hours' sleep."

Another barely-concealed yawn brought the tiniest hint of a smile to the corners of my lips; Lieutenant Sulu turned to face us now, chuckling under his breath.

"We'll be fine, Jim," he shrugged. "We can take it in shifts." It was a moment before he stole a glance at Chekov, who was slumped over the controls and snoring quietly, breathing obscured behind the gently lulling sounds of the _Enterprise_. "Looks like Chekov's got the first one."

Jim still scanned the faces of the crew for any signs of objections, before finally he sighed, getting to his feet and swaying slightly on the spot. I caught him by the shoulder to steady him; he let out another breath, leaning unexpectedly into the touch. I did not mind touching Jim; I had never minded touching Jim. Another strange defiance of logic on my own part. Somehow, this one didn't bother me as much.

Yes, after tonight I would be in dire need of meditation.

"Wehlp, as much as sleep must 'exponentially increase' our chances of diplomatic success, having my first officer awake and muttering logical advice in my ear definitely 'exponentially _de_creases' my chances of screwing up massively." Jim stepped closer to me, smiling crookedly. I restrained the twitch of my lips.

"Spock, I can't do this without you, you sly bastard, and you know it."

Finally, I did crack the tiniest hint of a smile, quirking my eyebrow again. It felt good to smile. I shoved the horrified logical part of my mind away before I had a chance to question myself.

"Negative, sir," I responded dryly—"Though I do know that in my absence you will not be sleeping at all, regardless of what regulation calls for."

Jim eyed me for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, pretty much," he shrugged shamelessly. He turned to Lieutenant Sulu.

"Sulu, you're in charge 'till Spock releases me from prison," he ordered, taking the offered nod as sufficient response. "Make sure Scotty and Bones know, if there's an issue for either of them."

"Yes, sir," Sulu replied, before Jim allowed me to gently lead him from the room, my hand on his shoulder moving carefully to his wrist.

The hallways were dimly lit and soft to my eyes, transforming his tired features into a complex weave of lights and shadows, dancing and blending and shifting until they transformed his skin into a softly radiant masterpiece all its own. The skin of his wrist was warm beneath my palm, nearly more so than the light that cascaded across his face. Jim was, truly, all warm; in the moments he stole small touches from me, the brush of his body or fingers was like sunshine falling across my skin. His warmth matched his hair and skin and smiling eyes.

Compared to Jim, logic seemed so cold—cruel, calculating and dark. Jim continuously evoked such emotions within me that it almost seemed to have become an addiction. An addiction to Jim, and his warmth that never failed to penetrate my darkness more easily than anyone I had ever before known. I was addicted to Jim.

"Spock?"

The gentle whisper brought me back to myself, and I blinked, to find him closer to me than before, eyes questioning. The elevator's doors stood open, though neither of us moved.

His hand shifted carefully beneath my fingers, and I realized he was trying to free his wrist. Another blink; I allowed my grip to slacken, and while I expected him to tug away completely, he merely slid his hand upward, turning his palm to meet mine and hovering, a fraction of an inch too far to touch. His voice was a careful, breathless murmur.

"Is this...?"

"Yes," I responded in a heartbeat, before the word had even crossed my conscious mind, and closed my fingers around his, lacing them with his own.

_Addicted. Illogically, intensely addicted to Jim._

The surge was not violent, as I had so often feared—as everything seemed to be beneath this soft golden light and tinted by the haze of exhaustion, it was gentler, a rush of easy, content happiness that forced the corners of my lips to curve, Jim's thumb carefully rubbing slow circles into the back of my palm to send tiny warm shocks through my mind, as well as my body. He was smiling, and I gave his hand a gentle squeeze after a moment, before the elevator's doors nearly shut on us and we were forced to continue down the corridor. One again, I watched him from the corner of my eye, subtly drinking him in. He still smiled.

We reached his quarters first; though I made to release his hand and continue onward to mine, when he paused at the door, a strange emptiness blooming in my chest at the thought, he still held me, throwing a questioning gaze over his shoulder. I nodded, closing my eyes briefly when he opened the door with another squeeze to my hand, before leading me inside and letting go.

Warmth; darkness. Jim was always so warm.

The rustling of bedsheets led me to his side with my eyelids still fallen closed, and once again he took my hand, leading me gently down beside him.

"We've got about seven hours, I think," he murmured drowsily, and shrouded by the darkness, now I did smile. "Should prob'ly keep the uniforms on though, in case there's an emergency."

"Seven hours, forty-six minutes," I corrected absently, letting a tiny sigh escape my lips as he nestled into my warmth, back pressed close to my chest.

He still kept our fingers laced, tugging my arm to rest around his waist, my other arm sliding beneath the pillow to cradle our heads; his messy golden hair brushed my face, head pressed just beneath my chin, legs capturing mine and pulling me close to him. The notion of pulling away never so much as flitted across my mind; his unique scent permeated the room, warm darkness blanketing us, and if I listened through the silence, the sound of his heartbeat gently lulled me beyond the realms of the dianoetic and reasonable. I pulled him closer, enfolding him in me, and buried my face in his hair to inhale his warmth—my sole, undeniable addiction.

My eyes slipped shut once again, and I felt his fingers twitch, with a single, involuntary feeling flashing from his mind to my own.

_I love you_.

I pushed the remaining strands of logic away, melting into him, barriers crumbling to let us share our dreams, wondering distantly at how this one man could do so much to me.

And when the pieces all fell into place, I knew. Regardless of analysis or conscious restraint, I knew.

"_T'hy'la_." I whispered in his ear, letting the affection overtake me and drag me down to sleep.

All logic aside, with a warm, supple mass of Jim and sunshine and _feeling _tucked away so intimately in my arms, I drifted off to the notion that here, with him, was the only place I would ever truly belong.

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**So...whaddaya think? Seriously, guys, I'm kind of nervous about this one. Most of my writing is metaphors and Vulcans and metaphors and such don't mix, so feedback, good or bad, would be very welcome!**


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